I had a world, and it slipped away from me. The War blew up more than the bodies of men. . . . It blew ideas away.
There is no time limit for a satyagrahi nor is there a limit to his capacity for suffering.
Those who know how to think need no teachers.
Silence becomes cowardice when occasion demands speaking out the whole truth and acting accordingly.
Civil disobedience becomes a sacred duty when the state has become lawless or corrupt. And a citizen who barters with such a state shares in its corruption and lawlessness.
My faith is brightest in the midst of impenetrable darkness.
The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.
The only wrong thing, perhaps, is permanently hesitating on the verge of courage.
. . . wanting things for the wrong reasons can turn anyone's life into a marshmallow on a stick over a hot fire: impossibly messy and eventually consumed, one way or another.
Whenever asana is done mechanically from the front brain, the action is felt only on the peripheral body, and there is no inner sensation, there is no luminous inner light. If the asana is done with continual reference to the back of the brain, there is a reaction to each action, and there is sensitivity. Then life is not only dynamic, but it is also electrified with life force.
That is exactly the writer's problem. What does literature stand for in a hungry world?